


The Choices We Make

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [4]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: (By Spike's Father), Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s04e07 Shockwave, Hurt Spike, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, OT4, Other, Spike Whump, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell is this?” Ed shouted, his words bouncing off the glass and even Winnie made her way over to see what was going on, headset hiding in her dark curls.<br/>“I…” Spike’s voice died in his throat, and Sam spun around to face the bomb tech as the situation started to piece itself together. <br/>“Spike, what did you do?” The team startled at Greg’s voice—the sergeant rising to his feet and the cold, emotionless gaze seemingly made of marble started to crumble, “What. Did. You. Do?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Choices We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Another story for this ship, I hope you enjoy. Please leave feedback (comments, kudos) as it is much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this story, and that you have a lovely day!
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor do I make any profits from my writing. However, this is still my writing so please do not repost any of my stories on other sites, thank you. There are parts of this story taken directly from the show (some dialogue, and part of it takes place in the episode "Shockwave") and I, obviously, do not own these parts (I didn't write those lines of dialogue, nor did I come up with that episode, you get the idea) so don't sue me, please. Thank you.

Lungs shaky and skin clammy, Greg Parker could say—for certain—that he’d never felt this out of balance before. In his hands was a tan folder, innocent looking enough, holding papers that he’d never thought he’d have to look at. Tossing them on the table, the negotiator looked at his palms and tried to still their shaking as his senses shut down. Greg felt like he was underwater; dying for air, unable to hear or speak, just struggling to reach the surface that hadn’t been that far away mere seconds ago.

A sudden storm had bowled him over, driven him away from the air and oxygen and into a mind-numbing confusion. Ed was sitting to his left, typing on his phone and waiting for the rest of the team to arrive, and looked up when the folder and papers landed near him.

The sniper stood so quickly that his chair rolled away quickly, and he placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder and lowered himself a little so he could meet his friend’s downcast gaze. Ed’s lips were moving, calming and worried words filling the otherwise-silent briefing room, trying to grab Greg’s attention, but the other man just looked blankly at where the papers hand landed.

Ed, keeping his hand on Greg, leaned over a bit and swiped up the folder, the papers finally falling free and scattering on the glass. The sniper read greedily, but his knees turned weak and he jolted back and paled at the words.

In large, stark letters at the top of the page it read: **LETTER OF RESIGNATION** and below was the steady print of Spike’s full name in his curly handwriting. The same script, that Greg knew was the bomb tech’s, was all over the rest of the form—why he was leaving, what would be his final day, all his information, everything.

“No,” Ed shook his head, and Greg fell into his chair—eyes still focused on the papers and blank, “This is just a mistake,” He smiled weakly, trying to grin but failing, “The idiot probably thought he was filling out a different form.”

“Ed,” Greg croaked, but the sniper slammed his hands down on the table and barked back.

“No, Greg, he isn’t resigning, okay? This is just a mistake—we’ll fix this, alright? Spike isn’t leaving.”

The negotiator didn’t say anything back, just shook his head and reached for a paper but Ed grabbed them up and stuffed them back in the folder while gritting his teeth.

“No,” Ed took his seat, legs vibrating with nervous energy and gripping the folder until his knuckles turned white, “Don’t. This is just some stupid error, none of this is official.”

“Ed—,” Greg said again, brokenly, but the sniper just watched the doorway with fire in his gaze.

“That stupid fucker better have a good reason to why these even got through the system,” Ed snarled, his back ram-road straight and tensed. “I swear, if this is a prank—”

Jules and Wordy walked in joking, all smiles, but they turned somber quickly when they saw the state of the team sergeant and leader. The two took their seats, trying to make conversation with Greg and Ed but gave up just after starting. Sam strolled in next, Spike on his heels, and Ed sprung from his seat brandishing the folder. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, Jules and Wordy nearly falling from their seats, and Spike’s eyes widened-back peddling-and that only fueled Ed’s rage further—because that wasn’t the look of surprise, that was the look of dread.

“What the hell is this?” Ed shouted, his words bouncing off the glass and even Winnie made her way over to see what was going on, headset hiding in her dark curls.

“I…” Spike’s voice died in his throat, and Sam spun around to face the bomb tech as the situation started to piece itself together.

“Spike, what did you do?” The team startled at Greg’s voice—the sergeant rising to his feet and the cold, emotionless gaze seemingly made of marble started to crumble, “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I’m sorry,” Spike rushed out, not looking them in the eye but not tucking his head either, “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you…”

Sam took a few steps, standing face to face with Spike and grabbing him—gently, but firmly—by the shoulders. The bomb tech looked up, pain visible but no regret was marring his gaze and features, and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“I put in my resignation two weeks ago; it must have just been approved.” Spike said softly, and Jules covered her mouth, eyes wide, and Wordy just looked shocked. Winnie stepped away, heading for her desk, eyes watery.

“Why didn’t I hear about this?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice down but failing miserably, “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I asked them not to bring it up with you,” Spike whispered and Ed stepped closer so he could hear, “I knew you’d try to stop me, find some loophole, so I asked them to keep the team and you out of it.”

“Damn right I would have stopped you!” Greg said passionately, striding forward to stand by Sam—who was still holding Spike with disbelief written all over his frame. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing—,”

“I’m doing what I need to,” Spike stressed, biting his lip before continuing, “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you or Ed or Sam or the rest of the team but this is something I have to do and I don’t regret my decision. You’ll still see me,” Spike smiled, and hoped that they would hear the _I will still love you, be with you_ that he couldn’t bear to say, “I just won’t be working with the SRU.”

“I’m going to go see the chief,” Ed ranted, pushing past his three lovers and holding the folder like it was trash. “Sam, keep an eye on Spike. Everyone, go train with team 2. Winnie! Take us off duty—bring in team 4. I’m going to go fix this.”

Greg shook himself out of his angry daze and followed Ed, ignoring Spike’s words of protest. Sam dragged the bomb tech towards the locker room, and Jules sat with Wordy as they looked at the space that had once contained their teammates, shock in their veins.

Then they got up, and Wordy went into the men’s locker room as Jules veered off.

“Just get your gym stuff on,” Sam grunted as swapped out of his gear and stood by Spike—whose face was red and looked ready to charge out after the senior team members.

“You know, the chief isn’t going to revoke my decision,” Spike told Sam gently, pulling up his running pants, “I know you’re angry, and I apologized for not telling you about this, but we are equals in this relationship and you and Ed and Greg should respect my choices. It’s one thing to not agree,” Spike stopped momentarily, hopping on one leg and trying to pull his athletic shoes on but giving up and sitting down on the bench, “but it’s another to blow up on me like that.”

Sam shook his head, shoving his locker door shut as he pulled on a T-shirt.

“Look,” he started, running a hand through his blonde hair, “just, why did you submit that paperwork? Why did you decide quitting was what was **necessary**? Why didn’t you talk to us first? Let us help? Spike,” Sam pleaded, “We all love you, okay? But I don’t think you’re thinking clearly, and you need to let us help because we can’t lose you, buddy. None of us can.”

“I resigned because it was what I needed to do, alright? You just need to trust me to be able to take care of myself and make my own decisions.” Spike slid his hand into Sam’s, squeezing gently, before letting go and walking towards the locker room doors.

“I’m not going to let you do this, not when you can’t even give me a straight answer,” Sam said defiantly, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to find out and Ed and Greg are going to fix this.” Then an idea popped into his head, and the sniper laid his hand on Spike’s shoulder with a sense of urgency as they stood, stopped, just in front of the exit. “Is someone forcing you to do this? Spike, tell me the truth.”

The bomb tech shook his head, looking into Sam’s eyes and speaking slowly.

“No, this is entirely my decision and no one is forcing me to do anything except you and Ed and Greg trying to force me to stay.”

Sam closed his eyes against the truth, and said harshly—not directed at Spike, but simply the situation— “It’s one of those internal agencies, isn’t it? Ed will take care of it, and Greg is going to fight the chief.” He reassured himself, “Now come on, let’s go work out.”

Spike, sighing, walked out the door and towards the treadmill with exhaustion following in his wake. Sam simply walked by his side, running on the stationary track beside him, and cursed when he saw Spike’s façade fall as he lapsed into a running-induced trance. His legs moved robotically, arms bent and pulled up, but his face—the cheery, bright look they had all grown accustomed to falling off—tired beyond his years and Sam knew, in that instance, that something was wrong. His anger melted away and was left with only fright and anxiety.

What had they missed?

 

* * *

 

Ed and Greg didn’t return by the end of the shift—which worried Spike, but Sam said they were fine and still with the chief, which worried him more—so the bomb tech quickly changed out of his gym gear and started for his car. A hand on his arm stopped him, and Sam was grinning weakly from where he was tugging up his jeans.

“Hey, do you want to stay over tonight? We can order some pizza, watch some movies, _cuddle_ ,” Sam wrinkled his nose at his own word choice but continued with newfound energy when Spike smiled and rolled his eyes, “with the guys. What do you say?”

“Sorry, Samtastic,” Spike said with remorse thicker than the Italian-tinge to his voice, “but I can’t tonight. Family stuff, you know how my ma is. Maybe tomorrow? I really want to, don’t get me wrong.”

Sam’s face fell, eyes searching for options, but nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, I understand. Um…” He seemed lost for words, plans lying in ruins at his feet, “Will I… Will I see you tomorrow? Here, I mean.”

“Yeah, I still work this week, I told the chief I would help find a replacement, or at least help narrow down the options.” Sam paled. “And we’ll hang out tomorrow, okay? Just because I’m not going to be working here anymore doesn’t mean that this,” Spike waved his hand vaguely in the air, “is going to be any different. I still love you and Ed and Greg as much as I always have, and we’ll still have movie nights and fight over stupid stuff and fail at fitting on the bed together. Okay, Sam? You have to understand that.”

“I…” Sam coughed, hiding a crack in his voice and the wrong emotions making their way up his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? I love you.”

“I love you too.” Spike smiled, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder before looking towards the floor and striding out of the locker room and towards his car.

The parking garage was cold and yellow from the artificial light, and Spike slid into his car like he had no bones and his muscles had exhausted themselves on the elevator ride here. He didn’t even turn on the vehicle at first, just sitting limp against the seat and staring at the glass. But his bed was waiting for him—waiting for him to collapse and sleep the day’s events away even if it was still pretty early in the evening.

Pulling out of his parking spot, Spike traced the familiar route back to his home and sat in silence as the car drifted calmly through the city’s traffic and into the suburbs. The sun was falling in the sky, just as ready to rest as the bomb tech was, as Spike pulled into his driveway and shut the car off with a flick of his wrist.

Taking a deep breath, Spike pulled himself out of the car and grabbed his bag before grabbing the key out of his pocket and walking to his front door. The door, easily accepting the key, swung open under his hand and the man strode into the familiar house with sleepy eyes.

His father was sitting at the dining room table, eating across from his mother, and he looked up with happy eyes—a newfound emotion discovered two weeks ago. An easy, calm gaze with no stress—what the doctor had said was needed for his health, to not be under any stress or risk serious medical consequences.

Spike kissed his mother’s cheek, hugging his father—who, now, proudly called him his son, told him he loved him and was so happy for him even if the future without the SRU looked as bleak as a life without his parents—and apologizing for missing dinner.

Leaving the room, leaving his father’s gaze, Spike walked to his room and softly shut and locked the door behind him. He threw his bag on the ground, pulling off his jeans and shucking them into his laundry basket. Crawling into bed, the bomb tech pulled the covers up and over him like a shield. His phone, which he’d taken out of his pocket and placed on the nightstand pressed against his bed, rung suddenly but Spike rolled over and silenced it.

He felt bad immediately, more guilt sliding onto his shoulders, but he was oh so tired and didn’t want to hear his lovers’ rants. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t lose his dad—not like this, not when the blame was on him and he held the scale of life and death like a Libra sacrificing their soul.

So he let sleep consume him, head nestled on his pillow, the phone quietly buzzing until it stopped and the room, once lit by the dying sundown, faded to pitch black.

 

* * *

 

Spike tucked his phone back into his tactical vest, stomach dropping and blood running cold as he kneeled next to the giant bomb. The red lines illuminated the ravaged hallway, and the keypad stared at him mockingly as the world slowed to a halt.

Greg was on the radio; asking questions, demanding answers, telling him to get out but Spike continued to kneel by the bomb and looked up at the subject with calculating eyes. Alexei Kanisky was sitting against the wall, staring at his invention whilst taking careful, measured breaths.

“Tell me the code, Alexei,” Spike tried again, running over the possible codes in his head. “No one has to die.”

“Then you should go,” the shorter man said, deflated, “go be with your father. I can hear your team from your headset all the way over here. There’s time for you to get out.”

Ignoring the team yelling and the harness waiting for him, Spike pulled himself closer to the device and swore; there were too many combinations, too many possibilities.

“No, maybe if I…” Spike trailed off, trying to think through all he knew but there were too many variables, a margin of error too wide to risk. “What’s the code, Alexei?”

“My mother…” The subject rambled on, eyes staring at the ceiling like he could see his God waiting, “she was always so worried, when I was growing up…afraid I would hurt myself…”

“The code, Alexei!” Spike shouted, running out of options, but he swallowed down his fear and replaced it with the practiced façade he’d carried for months.

“I know what it’s like to have no control, to feel helpless, Alexi,” Spike spoke softly, scanning the man for any clues, “My father—he’s sick. He’s not going to make it through the night, and it’s been like this for nearly a year. You know what the doctors said? That it was the stress that was making him fade so quickly; that his stress over my job was driving him to his grave. I did everything I could to fix it—I resigned from my job, I quit so he could be happy and I hoped that it would fix everything but he’s still going to die. He gave everything to me, and I failed him. I gave up everything that made me happy so my ma wouldn’t have to lose him. So I know what it’s like to hurt every day, to feel like a failure and not be able to fix anything.” Spike shook his head to clear it, “But I’m not going to hide away from the consequences, I’m not going to take the easy way out,” Spike stood, and dejectedly walked away from the bomb and towards the harness, “I’m going to go bury my father, and I’m going to take care of my ma. But if you want to stay here, and die alone, then I can’t do anything. I can’t disable that bomb you made, Alexei, I’m sorry.”

Spike put his foot on the rubble-edge of the wall and started to attach the harness. Ed was screaming so loud the bomb tech could hear him without his headset, and Greg was pulling rank but Spike didn’t listen.

“I hope you find peace,” Alexei said with moist eyes, “I just want to see my mother again.”

“What was her name?” Spike asked softly, and Alexei looked up with a smile. A true, calm smile; the smile of a man going to his death with acceptance and dignity.

“Galina.”

Jerking the harness off, Spike ran over to the bomb and slid to a stop while screaming into his headset for anyone to hear.

“It’s Galina! The code is Galina!” He shouted, and Alexei tried to shoo him away back to the harness but Spike shook him off and counted on his fingers. Greg was kicking something, the metal ringing over the comms, but Spike was staring wide eyed and speaking all his ideas aloud. Hands steady, he pressed the keys and repeated over and over into his mic,

“One man down range, everyone get clear!”

With one final click, the red lights disappeared, and Spike tore at the bomb until he reached the metal tube and threw it clear across the hallway. It exploded with a bang, but to the two men it was silent—the adrenaline coursing too thickly through their arteries and sapping the energy from their bodies while their ventricles lurched away from their atria.

Spike slide against the wall, whispering into his headset as he grinned at Alexei—the man looking lost and confused.

“Bomb disabled.”

The bomb tech stood and walked over to Alexei, reaching out an arm but the man shook his head and pushed himself up.

“Go,” Alexei nodded at the harness, “Go see your father.”

Spike shook his head, “You have to go up first, it’s protocol.”

Alexei didn’t respond, simply standing still and allowing Spike to hook him into the harness.

“I hope you find peace, too,” Spike told him lightly, and called up to Ed to bring the man up.

“Even if your father did not show you his love,” the bomb maker said suddenly just as the machine whirled to life, “I heard the worry of your team—they love you, you are special to them. Keep them close.”

Spike didn’t respond as the man disappeared behind the thick concrete wall and the floor turned silent, save for the voices still coming from his headset.

“It’ll be okay, Spike,” Sam’s choked voice said gently, teary and full of the agony of knowledge, and Spike clenched his fists. Lou had been wrong too.

The bomb tech didn’t respond verbally, only let out a rush of air and strapped himself into the harness when it came back down. Slowly, he ascended from the ashen-grey world of the bomb-ravaged floor and into the hot afternoon with the sun beating down and lighting the entire world up. Ed’s hands helped him onto the ground, and the sniper looked shaken but Spike pulled away with apology before the man could grab him into a hug.

“I have to go see my dad,” The bomb tech coughed, not realizing how much dust he’d swallowed down, and took off running towards the cars. He was so tired, to the point where any pain would turn to numbness, but he couldn’t stop. He had to go see his dad; the man who had called him a disgrace and denied his parental status. He had to go see his dad; the man that had beamed when Spike told him that he’d quit his job, said that he was so, oh so proud of his son and that he loved him and was so happy he’d finally seen the truth. He had to go see his dad; the man that had given him everything, the man that he’d failed.

Greg tried to grab him as he ran past—face ashen—and Sam sprinted so he was running alongside him but Spike just kept running. He slid into a van, and didn’t comment as Sam jumped in the passenger seat—breath fast and heavy from catching up.

“Are you okay to drive?” The sniper panted, and Spike nodded as he pulled out onto the street and towards the hospital.

“I can’t…” Spike struggled to speak as he focused on the road, “I can’t talk about what I said down there—okay? Not right now.”

Sam nodded, and leaned against his seat.

“I just want you to know that we’ll always be there for you, no matter what.”

Spike swallowed and nodded, biting his lip until the tears threatening to spill over dissipated and blood leaked into his mouth.

“I just—I just need to see him.”

Sam didn’t speak after that.

 

* * *

 

Racing into his mother’s arms, Spike peered into the hospital at his father—voice lost in the mess of his throat. His ma was sobbing, clutching his dusty gear, and Sam stood awkwardly a few feet away with a lost expression plastered on his young face.

“He’s…” His mother sobbed, but didn’t say anything further. Spike ran into the hospital room with tear tracks visible on his cheeks and his bottom lip trembling but also holding his shoulders with a resolve that he’d thought had been burned away by his father’s hateful comments.

“Hey dad,” Spike gave the dying man a watery smile, but couldn’t piece the words together after that.

The Italian man reached a shaking arm out, and Spike sunk to his knees and held his father’s hand with a firm grip.

“I love you,” his father whispered, and his eyes fell shut slowly as he turned his face just enough to catch one last glimpse of his wife and then returned to his son.

“I love you too, dad,” Spike said with a cracking voice, and rested his forehead on the hospital bed as his father’s eyes slid shut—like they’d done his entire life, like he was just going to sleep—and the world, which had slowly been grinding to a halt since he’d given into his father’s demands, stopped dead in its tracks.

His ma was sobbing, clutching her husband’s hand, and Spike rose from the floor on unsteady legs and walked out with a hand pressed against his lips.

Sam pushed off of the wall, walking to his side with sorrow dripping from his gaze, but Spike waved him away and couldn’t muster up the energy to say anything except two, cold words:

“He’s gone.”

 

* * *

 

Spike curled up in the center of his bed, staring blankly at the wall, and tried to ignore his mother’s quiet sobs. His phone had a dozen missed calls, and probably double that of text messages, but the world outside the protection of his covers was too cruel.

His pillow was sopping wet with tears, and it felt grimy under his cheek but he couldn’t find the energy to care, let alone do something about it.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the doorbell rang and Spike hauled himself out of bed and wiped away the tears—he wasn’t going to force his poor ma to get the door, not in her state, because he couldn’t pull himself together long enough to fake normality.

The house was cold as he padded towards the front door, and his skin was still damp from the run he’d gone on an hour or so ago. He’d tried to run out all the feelings; all the misplaced hate, the crushing loss that was in such magnitude that it rivaled any bomb, and the shock that chilled his marrow. It hadn’t worked; he’d sweated through his shirt, kept up a steady pace until his legs refused to go any further and then he pressed on another mile and kept going until he found himself standing at Lou’s grave. Then, he sprinted home on numb legs and threw himself into bed—all he felt now was exhaustion, but the other emotions hadn’t left the outskirts of his vision.

Pulling open the door, Spike blinked blankly at the three men standing on his doorstep and didn’t find the strength to move over and be polite—let them in, smile, offer them coffee or ask them over for dinner. His ma was still sobbing in her room, falling apart behind her closed door, and the house was silent without his father’s thick voice.

“Spike,” Greg croaked, “We’re so, so sorry…” The thick-set negotiator slowly stepped forward, arms open, and Spike fell into them before he even realized what he was doing. Greg led him forward towards the couch while Sam followed silently behind and Ed shut the door after them. They didn’t comment on his state of dress, or how filthy his skin and hair was, they just followed Spike’s descent—his knees giving up alongside, seemingly, his organs—to the floor and whispered sweet nothings in his ears.

Greg rocked him gently, just like he had when Lou had promised him everything would be okay and then the world exploded with his scream. Sam kneeled by Spike’s legs, one of his hands running up and down the fabric of his pants, and Ed rubbed the bomb tech’s back as Spike rested his head against Greg’s chest.

He wasn’t sleepy, because that was too normal of a function, but his body was ready to shut down until his mind would stop tearing itself to pieces like it was _him_ who had stepped onto the landmine. Like it was _him_ that had flat-lined on the damn hospital bed, lying starkly against the too-white sheets.

His ma was still sobbing in the background, and he needed to be there for her but his limbs were too heavy and he had nothing to say that would ease her suffering. He’d driven her home, and she’d taken one look at him before locking herself away because she saw her husband in her son’s face, in his shoulders and his legs and his voice and it was just too much.

Ed pressed a kiss to Spike’s chin, and Greg continued to rock him as Spike’s eyes drifted shut and his legs slowly unfurled from under his body as he sunk lower onto the ground. Sam whispered something, but Spike felt like he had cotton in his ears because it was all muffled and the words weren’t piecing together.

Spike just let his eyes drift shut and breathed in Greg’s familiar scent and focused on the feeling of Sam’s hand on his leg. They continued to whisper over his head, but the bomb tech was too lost in his own world to even attempt to listen.

“What should we do?” Sam asked quietly, and rested his other hand on Spike’s ankle.

“I don’t want to leave him here with just his mom; I don’t think he should be alone.” Ed told them, eyes downcast.

“He shouldn’t _have_ to be alone,” Greg stressed, trying to keep his rocking constant. “I can stay with him—,”

“Spike,” Ed bit his lip, not wanting to interrupt his lover’s mourning but needing to hear what he needed, “do you want us to stay with you, or do you want to stay with one of us?”

The three waited, and a little more consciousness filled the bomb tech’s eyes as his chapped lips slowly formed the words.

“I… I need to stay here, for my ma.”

Greg nodded; continuing his rocking and gripped him a little more firmly while speaking close to his ear but loud enough so that everyone could hear.

“Would you like us to stay with you?”

There was a pause, and Spike seemed to be puzzled on how to process the words but eventually nodded his agreement and let himself go fully limp against the sergeant.

“Okay, I’m glad, Spike. I’m glad you’ll let us help you.” Greg sighed, pressing a kiss to Spike’s wet hair. The bomb tech dozed off, one hand curled in Greg’s shirt and the other holding onto Ed’s wrist.

“Hey,” Sam caught their attention as quietly as possible, “Why don’t you two put him to bed and I’ll swing by our places and grab some clothes.”

Ed nodded, and Greg verbally agreed before the older sniper rose to his feet and took the sleeping man from the boss’ arms. It took a moment just to gently pry Greg free from Spike’s desperate, clenched-in-sleep grasp. They walked slowly towards the bathroom, trying to figure out if Spike could keep himself upright in the shower, and Sam slipped out the front door and they caught a glimpse of his headlights as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Fill up the bathtub,” Greg said, and set Spike down so he was leaning up against the wall, “I’ll go grab some clean clothes.”

Ed nodded and turned the tap until the water was warm enough, stripping off his shirt so he wouldn’t get wet. Then he turned to Spike, and gently shook his shoulder.

“Hey, buddy, let’s get you clean, okay?”

Spike nodded, but his limbs weren’t cooperating and he looked ready to fall asleep at any moment. There were bags under his eyes, and his hair was limp against his skull, and it was snapping the sniper’s heart strings to see his lover so torn apart.

Greg walked back in and placed the clothes on the counter before helping Ed place Spike’s body in the tub, the water rising up to his chest. The negotiator kept an arm steady around the bomb tech’s chest to keep him from slipping down too far in the warm water while Ed grabbed the soap from the lip of the bath.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Ed warned, pouring water over the man’s skull and rubbing the soap in with firm fingers. The bubbles slid down his neck, trailed over his face, but the man obediently kept his eyes firmly shut.

It didn’t take long to wash out the shampoo, and Spike found what little energy was left within him to take the washcloth from Ed’s hands and rub it all over his body—like, if he scrubbed hard enough, he could make the day disappear.

The team leader snatched it back, but he kept his movements fluid and compassionate, when Spike’s skin started to turn red from the friction. Spike looked down, embarrassed and apologizing, but Greg used his free hand to grab his chin and make sure they maintained eye contact.

“Hey,” Greg started, “you have _nothing_ to apologize for, okay Spike?”

The Italian nodded, and let the two men help him up from the slowly-cooling water but took the towel from Ed’s grasp, wrapping it around himself and shivering as the heat left his body. His lovers urged him to get dressed, and the bomb tech heard the front door open and assumed Sam had left and came back.

Greg guided them out of the bathroom, and Sam was standing—shifting his weight—a few feet away with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and keys still dangling from his fingers. He shoved them in his pocket, and set the bag down before striding over and pulling Spike into a hug—pressing his lips against his neck and breathing in the strong scent of soap before light footsteps interrupted them.

Spike’s mother, makeup smeared and clothes disheveled, stood in front of them with a wavering smile.

“I know,” She sighed, letting out a breath and looking her child in the eye, “I know that your father was scared, and he just wanted to protect you, but…” she said something in Italian, and it instantly brought tears to Spike’s eyes but it was something that would stay between the two of them, “you deserve to be happy, not crying alone at night,” Sam tightened his grasp on Spike, “and if what you do makes you happy, then I will support you.” She gave him a teary smile, and the man rushed forward and curled around his ma’s shorter form. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered in his ear. “You deserve to be happy.”

Then she turned her attention to her son’s lovers, strength slowly building back up within her bones, “and you, take care of my son.”

“We will,” Ed swore, and the woman opened her arms—approval thick in her eyes, and the Scarlatti resolve like a shield over her skin—and the three men wrapped themselves around Spike and his mother, and they simply stood like that until their legs were too tired to stand up, and the woman pulled away.

“Your father was always proud of you, no matter what he said,” she grabbed his face, hands framing his face, and the three men looked away and let them have their moment. “He always loved you, but he was so scared he didn’t know how to show it. But never, never,” she stressed, “think he wasn’t proud of you.”

With that, she lightly pushed on her son’s chest and walked slowly back to her room before shutting the door and Spike heard the sheets ruffle and swallowed down the lump in his throat and licked the salt from his lips.

“It’ll be okay,” Greg told not just Spike, but them all, and the bomb tech looked up into the faces of his teammates before giving a real smile and guiding them to his bedroom—the bed might not be big enough, but he just wanted to curl up on the floor with the three of them.

“Yeah,” Spike whispered, “I think it will be.”


End file.
